"I know," she said.
She looked straight back at him with eyes unflinching, and after a moment's thought he spoke.
"I think that—given every care—she may live through the summer, but I do not consider it likely."
Avery's face was very pale, but still she did not flinch. "Will she suffer?" she asked.
He raised his brows at the question. "My dear lady, she has suffered already far more than you have any idea of. One lung is practically gone, wholly useless. The other is rapidly going the same way. She has probably suffered for a year or more, first lassitude, then shortness of breath, and pretty often actual pain. Hasn't she complained of these things?"
"She is a child who never complains," Avery said. "But both her mother and I thought she was wasting."
"She is mere skin and bone," he said. "Now—about her people, Lady
Evesham; who is going to tell them? You or I?"
She hesitated. "But I could hardly ask you to do that," she said.
"You may command me in any way," he answered. "If I may presume to advise, I should say that the best course would be for me to go to Rodding, see the doctor there, and get him to take me to the Vicarage."
"Oh, but they mustn't take her from me!" Avery said. "Let her mother come here! She can't—she mustn't—go back home!"